Shalt Not
by nyssa123
Summary: AU. The phone rings at a quarter past two and Phil knows that another man is dead. Clint/Coulson. Rated M for violence and sexuality.


The phone rings at a quarter past two and Phil knows that another man is dead.

He forces himself to hesitate before he reaches for the receiver, like he hasn't been expecting this call for days. When he does answer, his voice is carefully flat. He answers, "Coulson," even though they both know who's on each end; it's part of the game.

"Hey Phil." The voice is tinny down the line, wrapped lovingly around his name. "Sorry- did I wake you up?"

"Where this time?" Phil says, avoiding the question. The answer- he hasn't slept in days, waiting for this exact phone call, living on coffee and dexies- isn't something he's willing to give up. Not now.

"West 42nd street." The voice sighs, and over the lines it sounds like footsteps crunching on leaves. "I had to end it early, he was too loud. So all the parts are still attached." He paused. "Well, most of the parts."

"Most of them?"

"I may have hidden his fingers in various places around the apartment. Didn't have time for anything more creative."

"Right." Phil runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath. He covers the receiver with his palm so it doesn't rattle to the other side when he exhales. "You could end this, Clint. Anytime, you can end this."

"We both know that's not going to happen. Stop asking."

"You need to stop."

"They're bad people, Phil!" Clint hisses, suddenly angry. "We've been over this! They are bad men; they _hurt_ me, they hurt _so many people_, so give me _one_ good reason why I should stop killing them!"

Clint is right. The serial killer is right, and God help him but that's not something Phil pictured himself saying when he joined the FBI. He can't think of a single reason to give Clint, he honestly can't.

"You'll get caught," he settles on, though he isn't sure he believes it.

"Phil," Clint pleads, "Phil. I care about you. That's why I call; because I care."

"I know."

"I would never hurt you, Phil."

The agent presses his forehead against his knees, sitting over the edge of the bed. "I know."

Over the phone, he can hear Clint sigh in relief. Phil stares out into the dark of his room, outlines of he desk, the closet door, grey and vague as his eyes adjust. The clock ticks, unbearably loud, and Phil gives up.

"How far away are you?"

Clint lets out a semi-hysterical laugh. "Open your window."

Phil leaves the phone on the bed and crosses the room. Moonlight streams in as he pulls back the curtains and cracks the window.

Clint stares back at him.

Phil looks at the man perched on his fire escape, the blood covering his bare forearms and streaking his face shining black in the pale glow of the moon. Clint's chest heaves, his bow clutched in one hand and his knife in the other. His eyes flash.

"In." Phil whispers, fingers twitching at his side, aching to reach out and touch. Clint hauls himself in through the window and stands in front of him.

Blood drips onto Phil's floor.

He strips off Clint's shirt, and it sticks to his skin where it's tacky and wet. The bow clatters down, the knife, and he shoves the jeans over Clint's hips and thighs and rubs a clean hand through the inky red on his chest. Clint slides a palm up under Phil's t-shirt and rips it over his head without grace, he presses their bodies against each other and cups Phil through his sweatpants, biting the lip that opens when he gasps.

"So fucking gorgeous," he whispers against his cheek. "You're so good, Phil, so good-"

It's a sign of just how deep down the rabbit hole Phil's fallen that Clint knows exactly what to say to send fire down his spine. Phil isn't a good man- maybe he used to be, once upon a time- but all that remains of the fresh-faced army recruit who joined the FBI to fight the good fight are good intentions. Maybe he's been staring into the abyss for too long, that this broken damaged man who stands naked in the dark before him, naked save for another man's blood, seems like a good idea.

Clint is a killer. He kills the men who bought and sold him, the men who took him and tied him. There have been pimps and traffickers, cold-eyed hags and dirty old men. They were all tortured, mutilated, maimed. They were all alive, minus hands and legs and one time a nose, until a perfectly aimed arrow through the eye ended their breath.

Clint is a lesser evil. He and Phil have similar goals, really; Clint is a killer by method and by choice, but Phil let a rapist fall to his death off a ten-story building. Phil shot a murderer in the face at point-blank range and never blinked.

Ten years ago Phil would have said that what Clint does is irredeemable. But Phil's changed a lot from the person he was ten years ago.

Clint pushes him until his back hits the door, licking into his mouth. Phil's nails dig into his hips and scrape down his back, and their teeth clash.

Clint spins him around and Phil's face presses against the door. The wood cuts into his cheek, and as his legs spread under Clint's calloused hands his cock lies rock hard between his stomach and the wall.

"So good," Clint murmurs, and pushes into him. "Never hurt you, Phil."

"I know." Clint kisses his shoulder blade and it burns, and Phil bites down on his lip until it pops and blood bursts under his teeth. "_Fuck_, I know_, harder_."

Clint fucks him against the door, rough and brutal, fast and gasping. He takes him, covered in blood and whispering nothings against the skin of Phil's back.

It is Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition, but they both need this. It will catch up to them eventually, someone will find out that the head FBI agent in the Hawkeye investigation (that's what the tabloids call him: the Hawkeye Killer) isn't making much headway on finding the serial killer who's been linked to deaths as far back as ten years ago. Someone will connect the dots between the young man with a history of being sexually abused and Olympic-level archery skills and the psychological profiler with the shady personal life, and when they do it'll all fall apart.

Phil knows this.

Phil shudders between Clint and the door. Clint promises he'd never do to Phil what he does to the men he leaves behind for the police- he has no reason to, he says in the dark, because Phil has never hurt him- but every night he kills Phil again and again, takes him apart without even using the hunting knife gleaming on the floor.

The little death. It's never seemed so appropriate as when he's in Clint's arms.

The archer comes with a halting gasp and slumps down. Phil turns around slow and sticky and holds him through the shaking end of it, thighs wet with red and white. There will be blue bruises on his hips in the morning to complete the patriotic mess they've made. Clint always leaves him stained, a little of the archer rubbing off each time they touch.

"Phil-" Clint clings to his shoulders, pulling them down together as he sinks to the floor. Clint holds on for dear life.

Phil strokes a hand through Clint's hair, hushing him. He doesn't know how he got here. He doesn't know if he'll ever get out. If _they'll_ ever get out.

"Only one left." Clint breathes against Phil's shoulder. "One more and I promise it's done, it's over." He shakes in Phil's arms. "I promise, one more and I'll stop."

"Okay." Phil nods weakly. "Okay."

They'll pull together in a moment, knees like jelly as they lean against the wall. They'll grab a washcloth from the bathroom and take turns wiping off the blood, the cum, the sweat and the dust. Phil will give Clint the last file, the one to end it, with the photo of the last man in line paperclipped onto sheets of medical bills, tax returns, and a criminal record. Aiding and abetting, Phil will give Clint the last piece of the puzzle and unleash him again into the night. And as if it can wash away the years of abuse and pain he suffered at the hands of these men, Clint will kill again.

But for now Phil holds him on the filthy floor and listens to their heartbeats in the silent air of the apartment.


End file.
